


After the Before

by WalkingDictionary (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Disability, Gen, PTSD, Permanent Injury, anger issues, injured Elizabeth, injured Neal, no forgiveness, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/WalkingDictionary
Summary: When a shooting leaves one F.B.I. agent dead and Elizabeth injured, Peter confronts Neal as a possible suspect. A series of events follows, starting with Peter’s brutal beating of Neal, that defines the rest of Peter’s life.Set around Season 3.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	After the Before

**Author's Note:**

> This story is intentionally vague on the specifics and changes to life of the characters who are injured. The story is told from the point of view of a character that did not suffer any injury. If something is portrayed wrong, please let me know.
> 
> This story has no happy ending. If you feel it is out of character, I do not want to hear about it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who takes a chance on this story.

~ * ~

“Peter, it’s my fault. It happened because of me.”

There was absolute silence while everyone processed Neal’s words. The air charged itself, breeding anger and mistrust and violence.

And then, then there was only Before and After. And the Before would always be tainted by the After.

Peter lost his temper. His vision went red and he zeroed in on Neal, shoving him against the wall and smashing his fist into his face repeatedly.

A hand restraining his arm finally stopped him. He stared at Jones for a long moment, feeling the anger still surging in his veins. And then, suddenly, it dissipated.

He turned his attention back to Neal, slumped down the wall.

It was bad. There was blood on Neal’s whole face, cuts from Peter’s wedding ring. He was crying and trying to hide it.

Peter looked at his hand and then at Neal. “Neal,” he whispered, but Neal shook his head.

“D-don’t,” he breathed, spraying a fine red mist with the stuttered word.

“I’m sorry,” Peter tried anyway. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yes, you did,” Neal countered. He spit into his hand, and Peter winced when he realized there was a tooth in the bloody mess.

Neal pulled himself upright, stumbling toward the door.

Jones moved too, grabbing Neal’s arm, ignoring the way he flinched, plastic zip ties slipping over his wrists. “Neal Caffrey, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

“Yes,” Neal mumbled, words slurred by his swollen lips. “What are the charges?”

Jones glanced to Peter, who stood dumbstruck. How could he have done _that_? That wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been.

“Murder of an F.B.I agent. Attempted murder of a civilian,” Jones settled on the charges when Peter was unable to provide any.

Neal blinked wildly—a feat since both of his eyes were half-closed and quickly blackening. “I-I d-d-didn’t,” he stammered, shutting up quickly when Jones jostled him lightly. He swallowed a sob and stated, “I want my lawyer. Now.”

“Get a real lawyer,” Peter said, not unkindly. “Not Mozzie.”

~ * ~

The ice pack was mostly melted by the time OPR let Peter go.

In the next room, he saw Neal sitting, stitches and bandages all over his face, wrists wrapped bandages, his own ice pack lying forgotten by his elbow. Mozzie sat next to him, hand wrapped around Neal’s upper arm. They both looked terrified and Peter wished he could go say some words of encouragement.

The charges against Neal were trumped up—anyone could see that, especially OPR. But still, the agent taking Neal’s statement appeared angry and about to lose control.

“You shouldn’t be here, Peter,” Jones called up from the bullpen below and Peter waved at him.

“Check on them real quick,” he advised. “It doesn’t look like the guy is going to last much longer.”

Just as Jones reached the room, the agent reached across the table and slapped Neal so hard his head rocked to the side and several of his wounds opened again. In a flash, Mozzie had Neal to the door and Jones yanked them out.

“Go, take care of him,” Jones said, cuffs already in hand, as he approached the agent.

“They’re lying,” he said, offering his hands docilely. “They are both full of shit and lying.”

Jones shot Peter a confused glance before snapping the cuffs onto the agent’s wrists. He handed him off to another agent before shrugging at Peter.

“I’ll look into it,” Peter promised. “There has to be a reason he lost control.”

“I’ll find Mozzie and Neal,” Jones said. “They can’t have gotten far.”

Peter could only hope that Jones found them before any other agents did and tried to seek revenge.

“Peter,” Diana said, and he spun around to find her standing at his elbow, a file held out to him. “Agent Rackowski’s preliminary jacket.”

Peter grabbed it, flipping through it quickly. A preliminary jacket only contained the last three months of an agent’s service before dismissal or death. Nothing in Rackowski’s jacket was out of order, and nothing pointed to why he would have followed Neal, why he would have cornered him, and how he ended up dead.

And somehow, either Neal or Rackowski had drawn Elizabeth into their little game, and now his beautiful wife was in the hospital, gunshot wound to her upper thigh.

“Fuck this,” Peter mumbled, handing the jacket back to Diana. “I need to be with my wife right now. Please, if you see Neal, tell him I’m sorry again.”

“I will if he lets me,” Diana promised. “Go. We got this, boss.”

Peter sighed. “Thanks.”

~ * ~

Elizabeth was in surgery when Peter arrived at the hospital. According to the doctor that sought him out, Elizabeth had not regained consciousness since being brought in.

Just as well since she had lost a lot of blood and would likely lose the leg as well.

And just like that, Peter was mad again. He wanted Neal’s face in front of him again, unsure if it would deter him from beating him again.

Neal didn’t deserve that, even if, by his own admission, it was his fault.

He needed justice. And despite how Peter felt, that wasn’t his fists.

“How long?” he asked the doctor.

“Maybe another hour or two? We’ll get you when she’s in recovery. Okay, Agent Burke?”

What could he say to that? Nothing. So, Peter sat down in a chair even though he didn’t feel like sitting, hands folded together, head bowed, and for the first time in seven years, he prayed.

He prayed that Elizabeth didn’t have to lose her leg, he prayed that Agent Robert Rackowski’s family found peace, and maybe most surprising of all, he prayed that Neal wouldn’t end up back in jail over this.

And then, he prayed for himself.

He prayed that he would have the strength for the coming days, for the apologies that Neal wouldn’t accept, for the ability to help Elizabeth, regardless of the outcome of her surgery.

Finally, after two and a half hours, the doctor approached Peter.

“Please come with me,” he said brusquely. Peter followed, a little worried at the detached manner. What did it mean? Did his wife survive?

“Okay, I’m going to come right out and say it: we weren’t able to save your wife’s leg. By the time she got to us, her leg had already been without blood or oxygen long enough that it was dead tissue. Fortunately, she was otherwise strong and came through great. She’ll be out for another couple of hours, but you can sit with her if you like. We’ll get you suited up in quarantine clothing before you go in.”

He led Peter to a small closet where he handed him a set of scrubs, face mask, and head cover. He also gave him a plastic grocery sack.

“She’ll need intensive care for at least a few days, and then we’ll move her to a regular recovery room for another four weeks. After that, she can be released to home. She’ll have several physical therapy appointments throughout her recovery. After about six months, we can see about fitting her with a prosthetic. For now, get dressed. Then you can see your wife.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

Peter found a bathroom and switched clothes, folding his neatly and stuffing them into the sack. He washed his hands to buy more time, why though, he wasn’t sure.

The face staring back at him wasn’t his. This new face was old, lined and creased in a way that reminded him of his father.

And then, he saw Neal again as he drove his fist into his informant’s face. How Neal had withstood so many blows, he couldn’t guess, but he was thankful Neal was still standing.

He couldn’t seem to make up his mind if he was still mad at Neal or just thought he was another victim.

Of course, of the three of them, Elizabeth, Rackowski, and Neal, Neal was the least innocent.

It made sense that he was out and about and doing business, but what didn’t make sense was how Elizabeth and Rackowski were involved.

And now Elizabeth had lost her leg over it.

And Peter was angry again.

Neal needed a new handler. That much was obvious.

For now, though, Peter really wanted to see his wife, reassure himself that she was still alive, even if she wasn’t whole anymore.

Walking into the ICU recovery room was one of the hardest things Peter had ever had to do. Second only to seeing his wife lying unconscious, leg tied off with a tie, Neal’s, and unable to respond to the paramedics.

He sat by her bedside, gathered one of her hands in his gloved ones, and cried as she slept.

~ * ~

Friday morning, Peter only went home to take a shower and check in with Diana and Jones.

Neal was back in prison, awaiting charges, if the F.B.I. could find any. Unsurprisingly, Hughes wasn’t inclined to accept Neal’s admission of guilt, especially after he learned the source of the cuts and bruises on Neal’s face. He also dismissed the murder and attempted murder of his arrest. Apparently putting a tourniquet on Elizabeth was more indicative of his innocence than his pseudo confession. The only thing Hughes couldn’t do was release Neal to a handler, so Neal had to remain in prison for now.

Peter accepted the answer for what it was: no charges would be pressed against either him or Neal. At least, not until Neal’s guilt could be established.

How and why a criminal of Neal’s caliber had earned the right to innocent until proven guilty escaped Peter. But here they were. Hughes was still in charge of White Collar Crimes, and Peter was still his subordinate.

Neal hadn’t made an effort to explain himself at all. Instead, he routed everything through Mozzie. According to Mozzie, Neal had been on the street because he’d heard a strange clatter outside his apartment.

Once he got to the street, he’d been ambushed by someone with a gun, and he’d dove for cover only to realize that another shadow had been struck. Elizabeth was outside Neal’s apartment at 9:00 pm on a Thursday night.

Why?

Neal didn’t know or wouldn’t say. Or rather, Mozzie refused to share the reason.

Either way, Peter was pretending not to follow the case. All he cared about was getting his wife healthy again.

She had woken up, learned she was missing her right leg, asked after Neal, and then refused to talk once she learned that Peter and Neal had had a falling out.

Peter waited her out. He knew his wife. If there was something on her mind, she wouldn’t be able to keep it in for long.

He had to wait twenty minutes, but eventually, she turned to him, mouth opening.

She didn’t remember being shot and she couldn’t recall why exactly she’d gone to Neal’s, but she did ask if June might know.

June didn’t know, as she’d told them last night. Being eighty-five wasn’t a guarantee of hearing loss, but she hadn’t even heard the gunshots.

Peter watched the nurses change and clean the bandages around Elizabeth’s stump.

His phone was silent, but Elizabeth’s phone that he’d sneaked in constantly buzzed like an angry swarm of bees. So many friends sending well-wishes and blessings.

It annoyed Peter immensely so he shut it off.

Elizabeth still wasn’t speaking to him, but she did shake her hand at him impatiently until he surrendered her phone.

She turned it on and then stared at it with a fuzzy expression until he gently took it from her, navigated it to her messages, and then gave it back.

She smiled widely at the notes and love shared. And then frowned at one message.

“What does this mean?” she asked, showing the phone to him.

It was a message from a number he didn’t recognize.

_I know what happened. If you don’t tell everyone what really went down, I’ll take you down too._

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Obviously, it’s referencing the night…”

“The night I lost my leg,” Elizabeth filled in for him, even though ‘the night’ was just yesterday. “But I don’t remember, so I can’t ‘tell everyone what really went down.’”

“I know that.” Peter sighed. “Look, honey, I’ll have the F.B.I. look into it. They’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise.”

“Like they are with Neal?” she accused.

“Okay, that’s different, and you know it.”

“How? Neal saved me. Why is he being treated like a criminal?”

“Because he is a criminal!” Peter ran a hand down his face, hoping to rub away some of the permanent tiredness he felt seeping from his pores. “Anyway, Neal is the reason your leg had to be amputated.”

“How?”

“He made a tourniquet out of his tie, but he tied it too tight. The leg was bloodless for too long. The doctors couldn’t save it.”

“And where was the wound?”

“What?”

“Where on my leg was the wound? Was it near or through the femoral artery?” Elizabeth grunted in pain as she tried to adjust herself on the bed. She waved off Peter’s hovering hands, and he settled back in his chair uneasily. “If it was, then you know Neal saved my life.”

Peter couldn’t argue with that because the answer was he simply didn’t know. He knew the wound was high up on her thigh. He knew it was from a bullet. He also knew Neal had something to do with it. Why else would he have claimed responsibility?

“So, someone is threatening you because of what happened,” he said. “I wonder if Neal received a similar threat.”

“Where is Neal, by the way? I would have thought he’d have visited by now.”

Peter took in a deep breath, shifting away from the bed, out of Elizabeth’s limited reach. “He’s back in prison for now.” She glared at him. “Just until Hughes can assign a new handler for him.”

“Oh, honey, you know you and he make the best team.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think I can work with him anymore.”

Elizabeth blew out a frustrated breath. “Oh come on, Peter! He isn’t the reason my leg was cut off!”

“Yes he was,” Peter said, insisted really. “He told me he was responsible.”

“Was that because he felt responsible or because he actually was?”

Peter imagined Neal just before he’d grabbed him and smashed his face in. Neal had looked so sincere, so hurt, so scared. It was his bad-things-happen-to-people-close-to-me-because-of-me face. Peter closed his eyes, defeated. “Probably because he felt responsible,” he admitted.

“Exactly. Now, can you please apologize to him for thinking he was a criminal again and get him out of prison?”

“Ah, yeah, that might not be possible.”

“Why not?” Elizabeth fixed him with as severe of a glare as she could considering her energy was fading and she should probably be going back to sleep soon.

“Uh, that would be because I hit him.”

“You what?!”

Peter ran a hand through his hair. “I hit him,” he said more clearly. “When you were in the ambulance and we were inside June’s residence, regrouping. Neal. He told me that it had happened because of him, and I. I just lost it. I hit him. I hurt him. I don’t know if he’ll ever want to work with me again because of it.”

“I don’t even know you, Peter Burke,” Elizabeth said. “Get out. Don’t come back until I can stand you again.”

“I’m the same man you married,” Peter pointed out. “I just lost my temper.”

“And have you even tried apologizing to Neal? Have you tried making amends or did you just stick him in prison for convenience?”

“No. Not at all. Neal’s just there until Hughes can get another handler lined up. And of course I apologized to Neal. I apologized right after it happened. And again when he was being interrogated. Neal doesn’t want my apology.”

“Neither would I.” Elizabeth turned on her side despite the fucking pain it must have caused her. Peter knew dismissal when he saw it.

He stood up. “I love you, Elizabeth.”

She didn’t respond.

He left.

What else was he supposed to do?

~ * ~

Peter went home for another shower and then he tried to reenter Elizabeth’s room only to find out that she had put him on a list of no-visits.

Angry, with no outlet, he went to his office. There, he gave Jones the number that had texted his wife, and then he looked up the agent who had interviewed Neal.

Agent Jacob Johnson. Ten years in the F.B.I., like Rackowski.

Johnson hadn’t actually been arrested even though he’d assaulted Neal. Same as Peter.

So, Peter slipped down to Johnson’s desk. Johnson was there, staring morosely at the chair across from him.

The name plate was—shit—R. Rackowski. So the murdered agent was Johnson’s partner. No wonder he’d gone off on Neal. Also, who the hell had authorized the interview? It was a lawsuit just waiting to happen.

“Hey, how you holding up?”

Johnson sniffled. “Could be better,” he muttered. “At least I wasn’t put on paid leave.”

“There’s that,” Peter agreed, rubbing the bruised knuckles of his hand. Technically, they both should have been put on paid leave. And Neal shouldn’t be in prison again. “Listen, I need to know if Caffrey has an edge on us. If he can sue us for this.”

“I don’t know.” Johnson flicked a look to his dead partner’s desk. “I don’t really care. My best friend, the godfather of my son, is dead. Murdered by a low-life scum who apparently has more rights than us.”

“Caffrey doesn’t have any rights,” Peter pointed out. “He’s sitting in prison right now while both of us are free. There’s nothing that says Caffrey was the perpetrator.”

“You know as much as I do, Neal Caffrey hasn’t been innocent a day in his life. The fact that he’s untouched by any of the shit he flings should be all the indication anybody needs. Take your wife for example. Wouldn’t she still be healthy and whole if it weren’t for Caffrey?”

Peter hated the way that made sense to him, the way it found the anger in his chest and stoked it. He clenched his hand, and Johnson nodded at it. “See? Even the logical part of you knows he’s to blame.”

Peter straightened his fingers. “This is not the rational part of me,” he said. “It’s the irrational side of me. I mean, I’m not violent, but I beat Caffrey. I knocked out his teeth, gave him a concussion. As far as I know, he wasn’t given any medical attention.”

“Your wife lost her leg,” Johnson said, as if Peter needed the reminder. “Remember who she was going to see when that happened.”

Peter shook his head. “Just remember that Caffrey didn’t pull the trigger,” he said. “Caffrey didn’t kill your partner.”

Johnson snorted, but he let it go, and Peter left him still staring at his partner’s desk.

Someone like that, Peter could only hope he never got that jaded.

And he hoped that his wife’s recovery did not bring out the irrational side of him. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened to Neal to happen to someone else, or even Neal again.

For now, though, it was his duty to let Hughes know about Johnson’s connection to Rackowski.

~ * ~

Hughes wasn’t too happy to be told that their department had done something that opened them up to liability, so to smooth over any ruffled feathers, he drew up a new contract for Caffrey. New parameters with the current handler.

“Are you sure I should be in charge of him?” Peter asked.

Hughes nodded. “There’s no other senior agent that I trust.” He sighed, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Peter, I understand that you lost your temper with him, but I also know that isn’t you. You won’t do it again.”

“I’d like to think I won’t.”

“It’s this or Caffrey spends the rest of his natural life behind bars. Now, you and I both know Caffrey had jack shit to do with the shooting. It was, as near as anyone can figure, the wrong time and place. Same for Elizabeth.”

“Someone is threatening her,” Peter mentioned. “I gave Jones a number to look into. They claim that they know what really happened, and they claim that Elizabeth knows too.”

Hughes looked apologetic when he asked, “Does she?”

Peter shook his head. “If she did, she doesn’t remember now. She has retrograde amnesia, trauma-induced.”

“So, all we have is Caffrey’s word.”

“And whatever the evidence says,” Peter added.

“Well, for one, Caffrey’s fingerprints are not on the weapon. There’s no gunpowder residue on him or the clothes he was wearing. Same with Elizabeth’s prints and clothes. In fact, the only prints on the gun are that of Rackowski.”

“So, what does that tell us? Rackowski shot my wife? And then shot himself?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Hughes said. “It just means that we have to dig deeper.”

“With what?” There was nothing at the scene. Just Elizabeth, bleeding out, Neal over her, keeping pressure on the tourniquet. Rackowski around the corner, a headshot, his service weapon just out of his hand. It certainly looked as if Rackowski had killed himself. But why? What were they missing?

Why did Neal go down to the street to investigate a sound? Why was Elizabeth at June’s…or Neal’s? Why was Rackowski even there?

There were too many holes left behind. Even a simple answer wasn’t simple.

Should they be looking for zebras when they’d already caught the horses?

“Sir, are you absolutely certain that I should remain as Caffrey’s handler?”

“Burke, I already told you: there is no one else I trust. Now, go, be with your wife while I get this paperwork filed so we can bring our C.I. home.”

Peter did not feel any better after that meeting. He understood why Hughes was loathe to assign someone else to Caffrey. He didn’t want a repeat of what Johnson had done.

But Peter had done it first and worse.

If Neal couldn’t trust Peter not to hurt him, if _Peter_ couldn’t trust himself not to hurt Neal, then they couldn’t have a working relationship.

~ * ~

Elizabeth hadn’t rescinded her no-visit order, so Peter went home to stare at the walls until it was time to go back to the office. A whole weekend of dry cereal and watching the shadows crawl across the beige surface.

When he arrived Monday morning, Jones pulled him aside.

“Neal is back,” he said. “He wasn’t taken care of. Well, he was, in one sense.”

“What?” Peter glanced around but he couldn’t see Neal, too many agents milling about. “What do you mean?”

“The correctional officers in charge of keeping him safe decided that a suspected cop killer didn’t need their protection. Peter, they beat him. Badly.”

“And he’s here why? Why not at the hospital?”

“He was released earlier this morning, but I’m not sure why.”

“Is he—does he want to see me?”

“I didn’t ask,” Jones said. “You should ask him yourself. He’s at his old desk.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll do that. Thanks for the heads up, Jones.”

“Hey, just doing my job.”

Now that Jones had pointed him out, Peter wondered how he hadn’t noticed him.

Neal was slumped in his seat, hat pulled low over his brow. It did little to disguise the atrocious bruising, stitched cuts, and haunted look in his eye. Yeah. That was a thing too. Neal had an eye patch over his left eye.

He caught sight of Peter and sunk even lower. Peter swallowed hard. That was the face of a man scared for his life.

Nothing Peter could say would make things right. He could try, but he knew, Neal would never trust him again. Apologies would fall on deaf, or worse, frightened ears. At least with Neal out of prison, he could visit Elizabeth and let her know that Peter was trying.

“Listen up,” Hughes said, “we’ve got a case involving counterfeit hundred dollar bills. Shouldn’t take too long. Burke, you and Caffrey work the case. Everyone else, you’re on Rackowski’s case.”

At the mention of Rackowski, Neal straightened, color flooding his face. To Peter it looked like he was about to start crying.

Hughes dismissed them, and the bullpen exploded into loud noise of agents scurrying to and fro, sharing information. None of them even looked at Neal, which must have been a relief to Neal, so used to having a pretty face that got him whatever he wanted.

Neal waited until there were no agents near him before he hauled himself up, one arm going around his side. Bruised or broken ribs, Peter guessed. He started up the stairs, glancing back once to see if Peter was following him—he was—before he entered Peter’s office and dragged one of the chairs to the farthest corner of the room and sat down very gingerly.

“Neal,” Peter said from the doorway. “I am so sorry for what’s been done to you.”

“Are you?” Neal said, and his voice wavered. He refused to look up.

“I am,” Peter confirmed. “For everything. For losing control. For what happened after that.”

Neal nodded. “How’s Elizabeth? I heard she needed surgery.”

“Yeah. They had to amputate her leg,” Peter said. “She’s been asking for you.”

“Really?” Neal didn’t look like he believed that. “Does she really want me to visit her? After what happened?”

“Yes,” Peter insisted, tamping down his desire to press harder and question Neal about that night.

“I’ll go after work today. Is that okay?”

“Sure, yeah. And Neal? I truly am sorry.”

“Okay.”

Neal opened the file, and that was the end of that conversation.

Several times as they worked, Peter found himself about to bounce an idea or theory off of Neal, only to look up and catch sight of Neal’s battered face and go back to his own file without a single syllable passing his lips.

At the end of the day, Neal set a pad of paper filled with notes on Peter’s desk.

Then he settled his hat on his head and walked out of the office.

He had never taken a break, not to eat lunch and not for the restroom.

It made Peter feel physically ill. He knew he was a cause of Neal’s pain and anxiety, but he couldn’t do much more than he already had. How could he apologize to someone who didn’t want an apology? Would an apology undo the damage done to Neal’s face? To his eye?

No. Apologies were not going to fix anything. The only fix was time.

He remembered Neal promising to visit Elizabeth after work. Well, if Neal was going to be at the hospital, then that was where Peter would go. Obviously, he wouldn’t crowd Neal and his wife. He just wanted to be able to see Elizabeth once she allowed him back in. Which she would do when Neal told her that he was trying to make amends.

Except, when he got to the hospital, Elizabeth still wasn’t letting him in, and Neal had been readmitted.

No one would tell Peter anything, so all he could do was go home for another restless night.

~ * ~

Neal wasn’t back by morning, and Peter wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or not.

He went over Neal’s notes from yesterday and was able to crack the case. He debriefed Hughes and then begged off the arrest.

Jones and Diana went out to get their man while Peter hid in his office, trying to get his hands to stop shaking.

Hughes stopped by after Jones and Diana came back, a pamphlet for departmental psychology in hand. Peter accepted it, graciously, he thought. He also scheduled an appointment with a private psychiatrist. He fully intended to tell only enough truth to the department psych to keep his job, but he knew he would need help in the coming months with Elizabeth’s recovery and therapy.

It shouldn’t be this easy, but Peter was glad that some things were easy. The road ahead would be difficult but he was ready. He’d already started looking at plans to adapt to the house so that Elizabeth could use all the spaces without feeling like she wasn’t where she belonged.

Peter didn’t know what he would have to do for Neal, but he was prepared to do it.

What a fucking joke his life was now. Too nervous to go out on a simple arrest just because he might lose control again. Too scared that he might turn on his partner again.

What a fucking way to live.

Peter sighed.

There was still plenty of work to be done. Hughes had no shortage of cases he just dumped on Peter’s desk.

And Peter worked them all. He pretended that his rubber band ball was Neal, and often ‘Neal’ helped him see the case in a new way. No, Peter was not losing his mind. He was coping. Badly, and in a way that he could see the other agents watching him warily, but he’d solved six cases by the time Hughes sent him home for the day.

He stopped at the hospital, more out of habit than any hope of Elizabeth allowing him in.

To his utter surprise, he was waved into her room—now a regular convalescing room.

She was sitting up, one of her friends brushing her hair. She had a little bit of blush on her cheeks, which made her seem like she was playing at being alive, still pale and drawn from her ordeal.

Peter smiled at her, something like relief bubbling in his chest. “Hey, honey,” he said.

“Peter,” she returned. “You’re here. Good. I have something I need to tell you.” She turned to her friend and whispered for a moment. The woman—Susan? Abigail? Rachel? Monica?—nodded and left, taking an overly large bag embroidered with goofy cats with her. Must be where the makeup came from.

As soon as the door closed behind Michelle? Kimbra? Kelly? Elizabeth patted the bed next to her. Peter sat on her left.

“Okay,” he said after a few moments of silence during which she studied him and he felt like she was disassembling and reassembling him in her mind. “What did you have to tell me?”

“Neal’s wounds became infected,” she said bluntly. “The doctors are pretty sure he’s lost vision in his left eye.”

The eye with the patch, Peter remembered.

“Oh, that’s…” What could Peter say? These events had been kicked off because of him. “That’s horrible, honey.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “He’ll learn to live with it, just as I will become accustomed to missing a leg. What I wanted to tell you, Peter, is that I remember. I remember why I was going to Neal’s, and I remember why Neal came outside. I remember everything about that night, but I still don’t know why he did it.”

“Why who did what?” Peter asked, carefully avoiding the assumption that it was Neal. Horses, not zebras.

“Why Rackowski did it,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know why he wanted to lure Neal outside. I don’t know why he wanted to kill him. And I don’t know why he shot himself.”

“Elizabeth, can you tell me everything you remember about that night? Please?”

His wife nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Robert Rackowski approached me on Thursday, around 5:00 pm. He said he needed some information on a case you and Neal were working. I asked him why didn’t he talk to either of you, but he said you weren’t responding. It was that night that you worked late on that case.”

“The Giorgio case, yeah I remember.”

Hughes hadn’t allowed Peter to use Neal on that case, and so it had taken far longer than it should have before he saw the break. As such, he’d still been at the office when Jones had called him and told him to get to his C.I.’s lodgings. If Elizabeth had been at Neal’s since 5:00 pm, why hadn’t paramedics arrived on the scene until four hours later? Her leg would have been salvageable inside of the first two hours.

Peter swallowed down his anger. Now was not the time to ask why no one had reported hearing gunshots and screams.

“Anyway. I knew you were busy, but I thought, if he was working with Neal, I could call him, ask him to meet with Rackowski. Tie up what needed to be tied up.

“Rackowski insisted on meeting Neal outside his apartment. He asked me to come along just in case Neal didn’t want to work after hours. I was supposed to persuade him. Instead, I was used to lure him down so that Rackowski could shoot him.”

“How did you end up in the line of fire?”

“I don’t know. That part is still a little fuzzy, but I remember after I was shot, Neal kept yelling about a truce. He’d fix me and then do whatever it was Rackowski wanted. There was another gunshot and then I passed out.” Elizabeth took Peter’s hand. “Neal saved me,” she said. “And I was used as bait, as insurance for him to do something.”

“And since Rackowski is dead, we can’t question him about what the hell he was doing.” Nor could they ask why it took so fucking long for help to arrive. Neal hadn’t been injured in the shooting. Why didn’t he call?

“No.” Elizabeth studied him for a quiet moment. “Peter, what happened to Neal’s face? Is that all you?”

“No! No.” Peter dropped his gaze to his lap, to where his hands were clenched again. “No. Neal was arrested under suspicion of shooting Rackowski. He was remanded back to prison for a few days. The officers there…they didn’t like the charges, even though they’d been dismissed, and taught him a lesson.” Peter sighed, inhaling shakily afterward. “They’re the ones that damaged him this badly. I mean, I knocked out a tooth. I bruised him, lacerated him. Probably gave him a concussion, but I didn’t blind him.”

“I believe you,” Elizabeth said, but she still turned away from him. “I’m tired now. I need to rest. I will see you tomorrow.”

The dismissal stung, but not as much as not being able to kiss or hold his wife. At this moment, Peter didn’t know if their marriage would survive.

Elizabeth couldn’t stand him. That much was clear.

He may have been allowed back into her hospital room, but he hadn’t been welcomed back into her life.

At least he had a target for his anger now.

He needed to know why Rackowski was insistent on meeting with Neal, why he had shot at him, why he had shot Elizabeth, why he had killed himself, and how four fucking hours had passed in between him shooting Elizabeth and help arriving on the scene.

The horses were standing in their paddock. He just had to get them into their stalls.

Peter pulled out his phone. “Diana, I need some information.”

~ * ~

Diana came through for him. She pulled Rackowski’s full jacket. Everything was in there. Every commendation and reprimand. And apparently there were a hell of lot more reprimands than commendations.

Rackowski had an attitude on him. He was just as liable to pop his suspects in the mouth as he was to arrest them. He also seemed to resent the fact that he couldn’t just arrest the people he deemed criminals. More than a few notes had mentioned the fact that he was a workplace bully.

There was even a note from Jones stating that he’d caught Rackowski setting up a rig on Caffrey’s desk. Something to break the chair legs when sat down.

Of all the stupid things.

Peter closed the jacket. “Does anyone else know about this?” he asked Diana.

“Higher ups probably. With his death, it’s probably going to be swept away.”

“He shot my wife. She’s confirmed it.”

Diana tilted her head. “Have you told Hughes about this?”

Peter shook his head. “I was going to tell him after I looked at the jacket. I wanted to see if there was a pattern of behavior before I go shooting another agent’s credibility to hell.”

“Even though he harmed your wife?”

“Yeah well, I never said I was doing it out of the goodness of my heart. I just want to understand the bastard. Make sure there’s something for the higher ups to actually listen to instead of a disgruntled agent pissed because his wife was targeted.”

“Elizabeth was targeted?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Rackowski had an agenda against Caffrey. Maybe he was mad at me for bringing him into the Bureau.”

“And Elizabeth ended up in the crosshairs. Makes sense.” Diana tapped the jacket. “He didn’t like criminals, especially ones like Caffrey that never seem to get their comeuppance.”

“Exactly.” Peter sighed. “Elizabeth told me that she was used to lure Neal out of his apartment.”

“I thought Neal said he heard a sound and that’s why he came down?”

“Yeah. I seem to recall that too. Elizabeth says she contacted him and that’s why he was out there.”

“So, Rackowski targeted Neal. And he used Elizabeth to do it.”

“Yes.”

“That’s rough. God, I wish he was still alive so we could kill him again.”

Peter laughed, a startled burst of sound. “Yeah. Me too. Anyway. I should take this and talk to Hughes. See what he wants to do.” He paused and then turned back to her. “So you know my wife, Elizabeth, her leg had to be amputated?” Diana nodded. “Apparently, Neal is blind in one eye now.”

Diana winced. “Because of you?”

“No. At least, not entirely. He was thrown in prison for a few days, right? The correctional officers beat him. That’s where his eye was fully damaged.”

“An artist like Caffrey.” Diana blew out a breath. “That’s really rough. Hey, maybe we should put together some kind of basket for him. You know, a little thinking-of-you kind of thing.”

“Yeah. Well. I don’t get the feeling that Neal wants people to know about his eye, so please just keep it between you and me for now.”

“My lips are sealed. Oh, give Elizabeth our love when you visit her again.”

“Will do. Thanks, Diana. You’re one in a million.”

“One in 7.5 billion,” she corrected, tongue in cheek. “Anyway. Go. Take care of our own, okay?”

Peter nodded and they parted ways.

Hughes was in his office when Peter stopped by. “Got a minute?” he asked.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I was talking to my wife. She remembers what happened that night. Or at least, most of it. Neither she nor Neal were anywhere near the gun. Rackowski shot at them, hit my wife, and killed himself. Why, I don’t know. Elizabeth doesn’t know either. Also, she says Rackowski contacted her around 5:00 pm. She wasn’t found until 9:00 pm.” He handed Hughes the jacket. “This is Rackowski’s full jacket. He had an incident noted where he targeted Caffrey. And he was vocal about his dislike of what he termed ‘cockroach criminals.’”

“Did he call Caffrey a ‘cockroach’?”

“I don’t know. It’s not noted in his jacket, but he used my wife to lure Caffrey out so that he could shoot him.”

“Was Elizabeth collateral?”

Peter shrugged. “I think so, but I can’t prescribe a thought process to Rackowski.”

“Understood. So. Is Elizabeth strong enough for us to interview her?”

“Probably, but you’d have to check with her doctors.”

“And Caffrey? Heard anything about him?”

“No,” Peter said. “I know he visited my wife and then was hospitalized again.”

“To be completely frank, he should never have been let out,” Hughes said. “Of the hospital, I mean.” He beckoned Peter closer. “He has an infection in his eye. The doctors think he’s lost the vision in that eye already, but Caffrey is being stubborn and refusing to allow them to examine it.”

“That’s a great way for him not to be able to regain any vision if possible. Although, Neal is a little vain, I can’t imagine he’d endanger himself like that.”

“Well, that’s all I know about it. Peter, don’t follow up on Rackowski. OPR will do that. Worry about how you’re going to help your wife. Check in on Caffrey. Don’t worry about reporting back to me. And Peter, take care of yourself too.”

“Sir, will there be any repercussions for my assault on Caffrey?”

“You’re not going to be charged with anything,” Hughes said. “Even Caffrey understands that you were under a lot of shock and stress with Elizabeth’s shooting.”

“It’s still. It’s not fair, Sir. I should have some kind of punishment for assaulting Neal Caffrey. To not do so sends the message that Caffrey doesn’t have the same rights.”

“He doesn’t,” Hughes said, coldly. “Much as he is a good person, Caffrey is still a criminal. He shouldn’t expect that our rules apply to him.”

“But he’s still human. He deserves to have a workplace where he doesn’t have to worry about whether or not the person working with him is going to haul off and smack him.”

“Let’s be honest here, Burke. Neal Caffrey was never given that assurance. And as far as I’m concerned, a little fear never hurt Caffrey.”

“You didn’t have to see him after he was released from prison again. Neal Caffrey is unshakable. He was shaken. To the core. He refused to make eye contact all day. His voice wavered when he talked. That’s not fair. And I did that to him.”

“No, Peter, no matter what you think, you did not break your criminal informant. Neal will recover. As much as he is able,” he amended quickly. “Go, be with your wife and don’t worry about the investigation into Rackowski.”

“As long as there is an investigation into Rackowski.”

“You have my word. There will be an investigation into Robert Rackowski.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask.”

Hughes just pointed at the door.

Peter took his leave, surprised to find that it was long after 5:00 pm. Visiting hours were over at 8:00 pm so there was time to head home, eat a little something and change clothes.

And maybe he could see if Neal was up to visitors too.

~ * ~

Peter slipped into a routine. Head to work. Finish some cases. Leave work. Visit Elizabeth. Visit Neal, who always pretended to be sleeping. Dodge Mozzie, who sat at Neal’s bedside like a bespectacled gargoyle. Go home. Rinse and repeat.

There were a few answers to questions that were slipped onto Peter’s desk like beacons of hope.

The number that had contacted Elizabath was a burner, but that was expected. There was still a way to trace it because the person hadn’t discarded it yet.

Diana gave him the answer for why so much time passed between Elizabeth’s shooting and the paramedics arriving to the scene. Neal, via Mozzie told to Diana in utmost secrecy, had been restrained. Rackowski had cuffed Neal to a pipe in the alleyway next to the building, cinching the bindings tight, knocked him on the head, and then waited for him to regain consciousness.

Elizabeth had been shot while she was tending Neal, but that part of Elizabeth’s memory likely would never return, and Neal had dislocated his wrists to slip out of the handcuffs, and it had been all he could do to get his tie off and around Elizabeth’s leg. And then, he’d spent the next two and a half hours fading in and out of consciousness, too dazed and unaware to call for help for far too long.

Peter recalled the way Neal had flinched when Jones had placed the zip ties onto his wrists. How Neal could have thought anything that had happened could be his fault was mind boggling. And the fact that Peter had beat him for it was beyond reprehensible.

The routine lasted for the month that Elizabeth was in the hospital.

When she came home, Peter took a week off work to help her acclimate.

Despite the doctor’s earliest warning against getting a prosthetic before six months, Elizabeth had already had her first fitting.

The woman who’d done it had mentioned that there was a bit more swelling that should go down, but that within another month, Elizabeth should be ready for her next fitting.

It was great news.

Elizabeth seemed cheered by it, at least. She also seemed happy to be home, and Peter helped her get around. Mostly because she was either in a wheelchair or on crutches. Neal was also staying with them despite his insistence that he could take care of himself.

He could, Peter knew, or Mozzie could, but this was Peter’s way of apologizing yet again. His way of atoning for the suffering he had caused Neal.

Except, where Elizabeth seemed to settle, Neal got more agitated until he walked out about a week into it and went back to his apartment above June’s house.

Peter tried to enlist Mozzie’s help in keeping tabs on him, but Mozzie, prickly and distrusting under the best of circumstances, refused to talk to Peter at all. And, once Neal returned to his apartment, Peter never saw Mozzie again.

So, there were at least three people that knew Peter needed to be punished for what he’d done. Four if Elizabeth counted.

At work, the investigation into Rackowski continued, with Diana or Jones keeping Peter abreast of the developments. Just so, he thought, that he wouldn’t be blindsided by anything.

Peter also worked his own cases. And after another two weeks, Neal came back to work and settled in the corner of Peter’s office, a sketch pad on his lap while he flipped through case files and made notes. He didn’t have the eye patch anymore, but it was obvious he had never recovered. He refused to make eye contact, even with his good eye.

Johnson, around week three of Neal’s return, was let go after it was found that he’d helped Rackowski with his “prank” on Neal. And that he was the owner of the burner cell phone that had contacted Elizabeth.

Head down, work hard. Peter trudged along, wondering sometimes if he was alive. Even baseball didn’t have the same draw as it had before.

Peter only thought in terms of Before and After.

Before, his wife had two legs. Before, Neal was almost too pretty to look at. Before, Peter had never lashed out no matter how mad he was. After, Elizabeth walked with a limp, when she walked. After, Neal never looked anyone in the eye, always keeping his face tilted down, left eye hidden under a lock of unruly hair. After, Peter never quite trusted himself not to burst into uncontrollable rage.

Before and After. The cleaving of his life, a jagged edge down the middle where all the love and hurt festered.

He and Elizabeth had not made love since before that night. And Peter knew it would be a cold day in hell before she even entertained the idea of having him in her bed.

For now, and for the last month and a half, Peter had slept in the guest room.

And that was where he would remain for as long as Elizabeth needed him.

It was life, but it wasn’t living. And he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, to find out that Neal would rather work with someone else, despite Hughes’ orders, that Elizabeth wanted a divorce, that Mozzie was ready to take his revenge for what had been done to Neal.

And then, about three months into Elizabeth at home, and during one of the rare times that the Burkes were spending time together on their couch, Peter took a call from Diana.

“We got him,” was all she said.

Peter kissed Elizabeth goodbye on the temple, almost certain that it was the last time he’d ever get to do that.

The whole drive into the office, he ran over the evidence that he knew. Rackowski had hated criminals with such ferocity that he was willing to risk his job over it. He was the only one who’d handled his gun. Why was the only question that needed answering, and by now, Peter was positive there was no real reason aside from the fact that he’d hated Caffrey.

When he arrived, Diana whisked him up to Hughes’ office.

“There you are, Peter. How’s Elizabeth doing?”

“About the same,” Peter said. She had taken to her prosthetic really well. She still limped heavily and appeared to be in pain, but she’d stopped calling him for help. It was a hollow feeling to not be needed.

“Well. We finally have an answer as to why Rackowski killed himself, and why he tried to frame Neal Caffrey for it.”

Then, Hughes launched into a lengthy explanation of how Rackowski had a terminal tumor and had wanted to take down the biggest offender to his “cockroach criminal” thought process by framing said criminal for the death of an F.B.I. agent’s wife.

Peter went cold when Hughes explained that Neal had saved Elizabeth’s life first by knocking her away when the firing started and then by putting a tourniquet on her leg when she was hit. Peter already knew more of the specifics than Hughes told him, but it was nice to have it officially confirmed.

Rackowski had killed himself with the last bullet in his gun. Setting everything into motion to ensnare Caffrey.

And Peter had done the rest to Neal.

He’d beaten him when Neal had done nothing wrong, simply because Neal thought it was his fault. Peter shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.

The Before had finally met the After, and Peter, standing firmly in the After realized that if he’d known what he knew now, the After wouldn’t have happened. He would have made sure that both Elizabeth and Neal were protected from Rackowski. He wouldn’t have let Rackowski anywhere near either of them.

And he never would have lost his temper.

In the end, the answers didn’t matter. They never had.

Peter still had to live with himself.

~ * ~

**~ Six Months After ~**

“I understand what you did,” Neal said one day without looking up from his drawing pad. He’d mastered that far too quickly for Peter’s liking. It unnerved him when Neal refused to make eye contact, but Peter supposed if he was blind in one eye, he would keep his gaze down too.

Neal’s words sank in. “You do?” Peter held his breath. It had been a long time since Neal had spoken to him directly.

“I understand what you did,” Neal repeated, smoothing his thumb over the curve of a charcoal cheek, “but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He set aside his pencil and flipped the pad closed before laying it on Peter’s desk. “You trapped me here, locked me in a glass prison, and threw away the key. I know you were trying to play the hero.” Hughes’ contract for Neal. He couldn’t go anywhere or work with anyone else or he’d go back to prison. Back into the environment that had taken his eye.

Finally, for the first time in nearly eight months, Neal looked up.

Peter forced himself not to recoil from silvery scars that crisscrossed his face, at the pucker of skin on his lip from an infected abscess, at the way he could see Neal’s left eye drift off center, even behind the curtain of hair.

Neal’s face was his fault. He didn’t deserve to look away.

“I don’t need a hero,” Neal said. He pointed at Peter. “You do.”

Then, he turned on his heel and marched away.

Peter sat back, mind spinning. He knew Neal wasn’t running away. He had too much pride even if that same pride made him keep his head down around everyone. What Neal had said…Peter couldn’t argue with it. Ever since that night, his life had been spiraling. Elizabeth had finally served him with divorce papers this morning.

He needed a way to stop it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. If he lost Elizabeth, there was nothing. He almost understood Rackowski’s desire to end his life, but he could never understand trying to destroy more lives in the process.

He sighed, shoving his chair back from his desk and standing up. Neal’s sketchpad caught his eye, and he flipped it open.

Page after page of Neal’s face, undamaged, from Before, stared at him, eyes accusing, mouth a thin, disappointed line.

Peter slowly turned each page, studying the way Neal used to look. This was his fault. This was all his fault. Peter picked up the sketchpad and chucked it with all his might at the wall. It burst apart, pages fluttering across the carpet. Peter moved to pick them up and froze, staring down at the only non-Neal face.

It was his own face, twisted into a grimace of rage, fist pulled back, already dripping with blood.

This was how Neal still saw him, eight months past the night that became Before&After.

It was how Peter still saw himself too.

And no amount of trying could ever fix it.

~ Fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to request a story or drabble, drop [an ask at my Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/ask).


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